Steele the Same?
by same ol' Tgirl
Summary: A slightly A/U speculation on who Neal's father REALLY is, and how his identity gives insight to who Neal is.  But what about who Neal has become since knowing Peter Burke?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I own nothing and no one associated with White Collar or, for that matter, any television show ever created! I merely enjoy the humble little fictions the characters inspire. I hope you do as well._

**Prologue**

As soon as Neal saw the treasure surrounding him in the storage unit, he knew.

Only one person could have done this.

Only _he_ could effortlessly steal Neal's own artwork and leave no trace of evidence behind. Only _he_ could have moved it to Adler's warehouse and made the switch undetected. And then, only _he_ would delight in leaving Neal the unit's key with the cryptic note: "You'll thank me." What old movie was that a parallel to...?

Harry Chalmers. Or, as the FBI files had known him, twenty-five years ago, Remington Steele.

His father had decided to reenter Neal's life.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

"Damnit, Neal!"

For the third time on the drive home from work that night, Agent Peter Burke swore out loud to an empty car. Only this time he slammed his hand against the steering wheel, his anger only growing with each curse, rather than diminishing.

Great. On top of a foul mood he now had a sore hand. He hated bringing the emotions of the job home with him. Usually the commute home was the perfect setting for shaking off the remnants of a bad day. His wife deserved better than sitting across the dinner table from a surly and preoccupied Fed who couldn't leave his work at the office. But this . . . this _thing_ going on with Neal wasn't a daily annoyance he could casually dismiss.

That afternoon had seen two near-miss disasters involving the FBI's most unusual consultant.

When Peter heard, felt and _saw_ that warehouse explosion, his gut twisted in an admixture of fear and guilt. _Neal!_ As he, Diana and Jones had raced to the inferno, his thoughts alternated between _God, let him be alive_ and _Why did I let him go? He is __not__ an agent! _Before he even had time to feel relief at the sight of the former con-man groggily moving from a prone position, Peter realized that Vincent Adler was on the verge of placing a bullet between Neal Caffrey's eyes.

In that moment, he only dimly registered Adler's raging threat as he pointed his gun at a dazed Caffrey. The words screamed in anger – "You won't get away with this!" – found an echo but a different meaning in the federal agent's own mind as Peter Burke aimed his weapon to save Neal's life.

As much as it had pained him to know the priceless and long-lost art was gone forever, that disappointment was more than offset by the knowledge that his consultant – _no, friend_, he admitted – was alive and in one ever-unruffled piece. And then, at seeing that one, lone, burning fragment of canvas drift towards the ground, Peter's hard-won calm disappeared in an instant as his mind quickly put the puzzle pieces together.

_This is from Neal's painting of the Chrysler Building. How did it -?_

_Neal's paintings were blown up in the warehouse? Why or How did Caffrey's work get in there with-?_

_Caffrey's work was there __**instead of**__ the Nazi stolen treasures! So where were-?_

_Oh, God. He took it all. And burned his own art as a decoy._

And the final piece that Peter himself refused to acknowledge, _Neal has betrayed me._

How could two and two not make four? The sequence of events that **must** have happened laid itself out like a child's sum. Neal Caffrey had remained true to form and stolen the irresistible art and jewels. And the only thing worse than the theft itself was the realization that Peter's idiotic belief that it wouldn't have happened was wrong. Agent Burke's personal hurt had quickly turned to icy anger as he informed the con-man that he had discovered Caffrey's deception.

As he pulled in front of the house, the federal agent continued to review the final moments of that afternoon in his mind. As he expected, Caffrey had denied he'd committed the theft, but then he'd had the **gall** to move their conversation from the professional to the personal:

"_I've never lied to you. __I'm not lying to you now, Peter. I didn't steal the art."_

Those blue eyes hadn't ever fooled him before and they weren't going to now.

"_Well, I think you did!"_

Something had flashed across Caffrey's face and those eyes seemed to darken before the consultant turned his back on Peter. When he turned back to issue his challenge, _"Then prove it,"_ it was as if time had reversed itself. The head of the White Collar division's crack team was looking at the face of the man he had arrested seven years before. This was not the face of a friend, but an opponent.

As he put his key in the look of the front door, he could only wonder, _How do I tell El?_

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

Neal returned home to his apartment for the second time that day, more questions churning in his head now than two hours before. _Why had his father suddenly reappeared? Why the theft and the switch? Why give it back to Neal?_ And not least of all, _What did he want?_

He shrugged off his jacket, loosened the tie, and poured himself a glass of Vietti Barbera d'Asti La Crena. The Piedmont red - a bargain at $42 – had a silky texture that would go down easy.

As he moved out to the balcony, a figure detached itself from the shadowed corner.

"I helped myself to the Anslema Barola, I hope you don't mind."

Matching pairs of blue eyes stared at each other, differing only in age.

"Hello, Son."

"Hello, Dad."

_**tbc**_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for the kind reviews and the enthusiastic reception for my little tale thus far! I know I am revealing my mid-40s age with my dip into Remington Steele, but when the inspiration hit me, he just seemed like the perfect fit as Neal's real father. For those of you who are too young to appreciate Remington Steele, it's worth checking out some episodes on Netflix or Hulu! For those who do remember, see if you can pick up the little homages to the complicated character of Mr. Steele . . .**

Chapter 2

Father and son continued to simply look at one another, doing nothing more than continuing to sip from the glasses of red wine each held in his hand.

Finally, the elder con-man broke the silence. "Well, I haven't asked you what you thought of what I placed in the storage unit nor have you asked me why I put it there."

It was as easy as slipping back into a comfortable pair of sneakers. "Apparently," Neal replied, "We're both suffering from an appalling lack of curiosity!"

And simultaneously the men pounced on the shared reference: "Sound of Music, Twentieth Century Fox, 1965! Captain von Trapp to Herr Zeller!"

The wine glasses somehow made it safely onto a table before the two embraced enthusiastically, the hearty back-slaps giving away the obvious affection between them. Stepping off the balcony back into the light of the main apartment, each gave the other a more searching glance, assessing whether the years had been friend or foe.

"Son, you look great!" Steele judged. "I am happy to see that you are no longer constrained to a wardrobe of orange jumpsuits. I haven't heard much of you since I learned you were – detained – for a little matter of bond forgery." He eyed his only child with a speculative look. "If my math is correct, you should not, actually, be due for such a wardrobe change yet." He then gestured to the wine on the table and the quietly elegant room around them. "How have you managed this? And," he added without skipping a beat, "when did that little fashion accessory become de rigueur?" pointing downwards to the ever-present tracking anklet around Neal's lower leg.

"I won't say that—" Neal's reply was cut short by a knock and an urgent voice at the door.

"Neal? Neal? Are you home? It's June. Are you all right?"

"My landlady," he explained over his shoulder to his father as he went to open the door.

He opened the door and the attractive older woman immediately stepped in, reaching up to put her palm against Neal's cheek in motherly concern.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you're all right," she said. "Mozzie told me you'd been nearly killed in a warehouse explosion today and I just—"

The elegant woman stopped in mid-sentence as she caught sight of the other dark-haired man in the room. She stared, eyes growing wide in recognition as she started to walk over to the tall man who was not a stranger to her.

"Tommy? Tommy Crown is that you?"

"In the flesh, June, my love," came the hearty response. "And nearly speechless at finding you as beautiful as ever!"

"Oh, Tommy, it's soooo good to see you," she exclaimed as she quickly closed the distance between them to wrap him in a hug.

Neal watched in amazement as his landlady wrapped his father in a familiar embrace. How did these two, of all people, know each other? And why was June calling him 'Tommy Crown'-? The answer dawned almost in an instant, as Neal recognized his father's penchant for choosing aliases based on movie characters. And whose name better to use than that of the great art thief played by Steve McQueen in the 70s classic film, _The Thomas Crown Affair_?

June withdrew from Steele's warm hold, but kept her arm around his waist as she turned to look at her tenant.

"Neal," she asked, "how in the world do you know Tommy Crown? I haven't seen him in years, not since Byron and I knew him before we worked the Lenox Lounge."

"Where is the old man?" Steele inquired. "I always warned him if that if I ever got you alone . . ."

"Tommy, I'm sorry, you must not have heard. Byron passed away several years ago," was the subdued reply.

Steele drew his old friend back into a comforting embrace.

"I am sorry, June. I didn't know," he apologized. "I've been out of the country for some time now and only just returned a few days ago. If I'd known, please believe I would've been here - for the funeral and for you as well."

June looked up into familiar eyes that were both sorrowful and sincere. She'd met this charming man when he was only slightly younger than Neal was now. In spite of that youth, he'd been a good friend to her and her husband, not to mention quite a capable accomplice in the little scheme Byron had concocted that summer in late 1978.

"I know you would have, darling," she reassured him. "Really, don't be so sad. I do miss him terribly, but you'd be surprised how delightful it is having this young man," nodding at Neal, "occupying this floor of my home, wearing Byron's suits, and . . . generally . . . providing . . . me . . .with . . . some…"

Her voice drifted to a halt as she looked from her friend Tommy to the dapper young man by the door. Then she looked at the two of them again.

"Neal," she asked, her voice trembling slightly, "How do you know Tommy Crown?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

At hearing June's question, Neal shot his father a look. _Is our relationship a secret or not?_

The answer was given in Steele's easy-going response to his suspicious friend. "I introduced myself to young Mr. Caffrey about ten years ago, June," he explained. "Actually, a friend introduced us as she was struck by how similar she thought we looked. But really, beyond blue eyes and dark hair, we really aren't so much alike at all, are we?"

As June more closely observed her two friends, one old and one new, she began to catalog the differences she marked between them, feeling silly about her momentary suspicion of their possible relationship to each other.

"Of course, Tommy, I can see what you mean. It is truly astonishing how your eyes are nearly the same shade of blue, but Neal's other features are quite distinct from yours…" As she continued to comment on the dissimilarities between their nose, cheekbones, and chin, Steele was only half-listening as memories of Neal's mother flooded his mind.

_Ah, Laura, he may have my eyes, but our son looks so much like you! How I wish you could see him now. How I wish I had been with both of you for all those years. If only my agreement with — He_ deliberately stopped that dangerous train of thought. Regrets were useless and brought up emotions that could threaten to escape his careful control. As painful as the sacrifice had been, was not the presence of his son, alive and well before him, proof enough that it had all been worthwhile?

Unaware of the musings of his father's mind, Neal gave a yawn with an unusually graceless attempt to hide it, hoping to urge his good-hearted friend to say good night. He was tired, given that he had been nearly killed twice that day, but he also knew that he had yet to have a very necessary discussion with his re-appearing parent.

June indeed saw the yawn and turned back to Steele for one last time.

"Tommy, now that you're here, you have to promise you will come to see me for a real visit. I want to know what's kept you so busy for the past 30 years." She wrapped her arms around him one final time and whispered in his ear, "I am **so** very happy to see you again."

She began to pull away, but kept his hand gripped in her own, knowledge of the man she knew so long ago prompting her next question. "You aren't in trouble, are you, Tommy? Do you need a place to stay? I have a room—."

"June, love, it is 30 years later and you are mother-henning me now just like you did then. I am not in any trouble nor do I need a safe house," he reassured her. "I have quite a nice hotel room in Midtown. I am in New York on business and count my unexpected encounter with Neal as good fortune. Seeing you again is nothing less than an undeserved blessing."

The sunflower of a compliment was delivered as smooth as cream. A saucy grin broke across June's features as she laughed, "My boy, you haven't lost that gift of blarney, I see. Neal," she said turning to the younger man, "If you didn't know it already, watch out for this one. He can talk a pig into volunteering to become pork chops!"

"Tommy, don't you keep my tenant up late," she admonished as she walked to the door, "You may have enjoyed a peaceful day, but he certainly didn't. And, Neal," June halted in the landing to give final instructions, "You get some rest. If you need anything, you just let me know. I'll have breakfast brought up for you as usual. Good night, gentlemen."

"Good night, June," Neal echoed as he shut the door behind her. He turned and looked again at his father. "Do I dare even ask how it is that you know my landlady, who just happened to be married to one of Harlem's most successful con-men?"

"Ancient history, laddie," Steele answered. "Part of my misspent youth, long before I even met your mother. June and Byron were a safe port in a storm the first time I came to the US," he paused for a sip from his forsaken wine glass. "They were two of the kindest people I've ever met," he added reflectively.

"I can't speak for Byron," Neal responded, "but I'll second your opinion of June. You can see the result of her kindness to me," gesturing to the apartment around them.

Once again lazulite blue eyes met a matching pair over the rim of wide-mouthed goblets. Neal took a quiet breath before asking, "So, are you here to talk me into becoming a pork chop?"

**tbc**

**A/N: sorry, I know it's very short, but it was the perfect place to break! I hope to have the next chapter up before the weekend! Thanks for all the encouraging comments!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I am so heartened and encouraged by the happy and helpful reviews so many of you have submitted! I only wish I could post faster to reward your enthusiasm. Alas, the ideas in my head take a while to "gel" in detail and work themselves out on paper. This has been a most fun project!**

**Chapter 4**

Elizabeth Burke was no fool.

In fact, she was nearly as good an observer of people and situations as her FBI-trained husband. While some might scoff at the idea, being an event planner meant not only watching clients and their guests, not to mention the staff working an event, but _reading_ the true meaning behind their body language as well as their spoken words. Society – especially New York Society – did not revel in the straightforward. A glance, a tone, a gesture; all these held more truth than any simple statement made or question asked.

When you asked what style or theme the hostess wanted for her party, you had to interpret much more than the answer of "Something traditional, yet modern. It must be classically elegant, yet chic." El used her brains as well as her eyes, taking in the décor of the home, the clothes her client was wearing, the kind of jewelry she had chosen, etc. All of that, _together_ with the somewhat ambiguous reply, enabled her to realistically carry out the client's wishes. Her ultimate success as an event planner in the dog-eat-dog world of New York Society was proof that she indeed was very, very good at noticing, interpreting, and producing desired results.

And all those talents were kept sharp and at-the-ready by interactions at home with the sometime taciturn, stubborn Federal agent who owned her heart. She often had to watch _his_ body language and pick up on _his_ verbal cues – spoken and unspoken – in order to determine what it was that he needed from her, even if he didn't know it himself.

Should she push Peter to tell her about something that had happened that day, or give him silent space until his heart was ready to open up to her?

Did she make every effort to coax a smile out of him or give him the time to work through whatever anger or frustration was tarnishing his spirit?

Was this the time to hold him and cry with him over a loss or did she leave for an evening movie and give a sorrowful Agent Burke the solitude of their home and the sympathetic eyes of Satchmo?

Tonight demanded the use of those subtle skills. Peter alternated between periods of distracted silence and moments of conversation in which he expressed a ridiculous amount of interest in her up-coming charity event that weekend. It was if he were being dragged down into a whirlpool of thoughts by whatever had gone on that day, and then as if in an attempt to escape those dark waters he talked about _her_ job with a desperate energy.

For the first few minutes, before she registered what was going on, Elizabeth had thought his conversation funny. Peter asking about napkin-folding techniques was rather charming. But soon it was clear to see that it was _not_ funny, but in reality, painful. El wasn't sure how much more of it she could take before she just ended the wretched game.

"So, hon, which chocolate mousse recipe did you decide on?"

That did it.

"Peter Timothy Burke," she expostulated, "this has to stop!"

He had the good grace to look shame-faced rather than confused. Actually, he was surprised she'd waited this long to call him on it. The patience of the beautiful woman he'd married was remarkable, but not eternal. He had known it was only a matter of time before El would want an explanation for his admittedly odd behavior.

"I'm sorry, El," he said as he reached across the table for her hand. "I know I've been a bit off this evening. I just can't shake all that happened today."

She tightened her own grip on his hands. "Peter, you don't need to apologize; just _tell_ me what's wrong."

He let go of her hands and ground his palms into his tired eyes. "What didn't happen? This day turned out to be the ultimate hat-trick - - Neal almost died, I killed a man, and millions of dollars in Nazi art is missing that I believe Neal stole." He looked back at Elizabeth again, the regret and sorrow in his eyes evident. "My consultant is once again an unrepentant criminal," he added bitterly.

Elizabeth just stared at her husband in stunned silence. Her discerning heart deserted her. Good Lord, what was she supposed to ask about first? Well, at the very least she could give him comfort without words and she left her chair to wrap him in her arms.

"Darling," she said softly, "I'm so sorry."

The worn-down FBI agent accepted the refuge his wife offered to him. He tightened his arms around her and pressed his cheek against her hair, allowing her clean, sweet scent to wash over him. He took several deep breaths both to steady his emotions and to rid his nose of the lingering, acrid odors from the burning wood of the warehouse. Only with Elizabeth could he let his guard down and acknowledge his human vulnerability. How stupid had he been to have thought that his relationship with a con man might also have been a refuge of friendship!

Elizabeth could immediately feel the change in Peter's body, the sudden return to tension from the momentary lapse of relaxation. Sometimes this job demanded more than any person could be expected to give, including her husband.

"Peter?" she prodded gently, "Who died today?"

He shifted position to move his arm across her shoulder and walked her from the dining table over to the sofa. "I shot Vincent Adler," he stated baldly.

"Was he trying to kill you?"

"No." was the terse reply.

This was like pulling teeth. "Was he trying to kill someone else?"

"Yes."

Clearly the floodgates were not about to open in a torrent of words that would explain his dark mood. "Peter," she pleaded, taking his stubble-shadowed cheeks between her hands, "talk to me, sweetheart."

He pulled her against his chest in a fierce embrace. "I'm sorry, El," Peter said. "I don't deserve you, you know."

"Of course you don't," she smiled, "but that's not the point. I love you and I am here to listen to you, however long it takes."

He drew in another deep breath before replying, "Adler was going to kill Neal. He had his gun pointed right at Neal's head. If I hadn't gotten there in time—"

The mental image of arriving on the scene ten seconds too late, of only finding Caffrey silent and splattered in his own blood choked off the rest of the experienced agent's sentence. He was _always_ bothered by having to use his weapon to take a life, and Neal Caffrey's involvement only ratcheted up the emotional complications.

"I am sorry you had to be the one who had to fire that bullet," Elizabeth began slowly, "but I'm glad that horrible man is dead! And you can't convince me he didn't have it coming! It's really a sort of cosmic justice - - he was responsible for Kate's death and he was only seconds away from causing Neal's as well.

The world's better off without him," she added with an emphatic nod.

Peter stared at his wife in amazement. _This_ was a side of his bride that he hadn't seen before.

She saw the surprised look on his face and asked him, "Don't _you_ think the world is more than a little bit safer with Adler dead?"

"I suppose so," the Federal agent agreed reluctantly, "I would just as soon have preferred to lock him up in a maximum security prison for the rest of his life, though." He gave out a sigh that seemed to come out of his soul, "I didn't want to have to kill him."

"I know you didn't," Elizabeth affirmed, "and that's why you are who you are, and one of the reasons why I love you so much." She followed up her declaration with a gentle kiss. "You are not a bloodthirsty avenger with a badge, Peter Burke, don't you ever forget that!"

He merely gave a rumbling grunt in response, content to pull her close to his chest again, taking consolation in the feel of her heart beating in time with his own.

Enjoying the quiet moment as well, Elizabeth waited for several minutes, and when nothing else was forthcoming from him, she asked, "Peter?"

"Hmmm?"

"I'd like to know why, after all this time working together, you believe that Neal stole the art collection from Adler."

As before, she immediately sensed the emotional sea-change in his body. His muscles tensed, his pulse quickened, and breaths grew shorter and harsher. _**This**__ is what's eating at him,_ she thought, _even more than having to kill Vincent Adler._

"Because it's fact, El," he said roughly, "a cold, hard fact."

She pulled away from him to look into his eyes. "All right, then, tell me what those facts are. Prove to me, with the evidence, that Neal Caffrey – your consultant _and_ your friend – stole that art."

"Okay, if you want to hear it so badly," he jumped up and began to pace about the living room, pausing to banish Satchmo to the kitchen. "One, he is thief—"

"_Was_ a thief," his wife corrected. "Since he's worked with you he has not resorted to stealing, no matter how tempting it's been to him."

"Two," he went on, refusing to acknowledge Elizabeth's point. One of his instructors at Quantico had an expression to deal with situations like this, 'Never let the facts get in the way of the truth.' "Two," he repeated, "It wasn't an outright theft, but a theft within a con. And Neal Caffrey is a con man."

"Is he?" she asked. "I know that's what he was before you even knew he existed, and he was when you arrested him. But now he is a consultant for the FBI, not a con man."

"El, he's a consultant for us because he essentially is running cons on the bad guys so we can catch 'em. He hasn't _stopped_ being a con!"

"Oh, really? So the FBI is sponsoring illegal activities to catch criminals?"

"Don't be silly; of course not. I make sure everything we do is above-board; we get warrants and we play by the rules. You don't defeat the bad guys by becoming one of them."

"No, you don't," she agreed quietly. "You made a bad guy into a good one by becoming one of _you_. Neal plays by your rules now, Peter," she reminded him. "He accepted the limited freedom you offered him, he lives on that electronic leash that is strapped to his ankle. He has chosen the path you've shown him; to be a man, and _not _a con man."

If he was going to prove his case to El, her feminine logic had to be ignored. Peter barreled through to his next point. "Three, I saw that it was Neal's own original artwork that was burned in the explosion. For any investigation of the explosion they had to find remnants of canvass, paint and frames. So Neal switched his own canvasses for that entire Nazi collection. I _recognized_ a burning scrap of his painting of the Chrysler Building, as debris was falling around us. He wasn't out to just con Adler, he also had to con the FBI; he was conning _me_."

The hurt and disappointment radiated from him – his tone, his posture, the look on his face. Peter's belief that Neal had betrayed him was the biggest wound of all.

"Honey, I'm not just playing devil's advocate here," Elizabeth told her husband. "Take a closer look at your own evidence; it just doesn't add up." She continued on, pointing out the holes in the Swiss-cheesed proof he presented to her. "When would Neal have had the time to pull it off? Less than 24 hours passed between your rescue from the dry dock and the discovery of the factory the next day. Neal and Sara had dinner with us that very evening until late. How could he have possibly found the factory to begin with, loaded up his work, taken it to Adler's hideaway, removed all the Nazi treasure, arranged his work in its place, carted off the treasure, and then hide it somewhere else? All before you picked him up at eight o'clock this morning? As good as some of Neal's skills are, I'm pretty sure time travel isn't one of them."

"El—" he tried to interrupt.

"Let me finish," she insisted. "What is his motive? You and I have talked about Neal's past before, why we think he did what he did. We agreed it was never about the money. So he wouldn't have taken the art merely to sell it for the millions it's worth. And how would he have sold it? No respectable collector would touch that art - - a close look at the provenance of any one piece would reveal it to be lost Holocaust treasure.

Peter tried again, "El, listen—"

"No, sweetheart, _you_ listen." Elizabeth was using the brains God gave her and she was not going to stop until her husband caught up to the truth. "How could any of those masterpieces be moved on the black market without raising red flags in your own division within 48 hours? How would he be able to find a fence who could handle the collection? Almost all his time is spent with you and your team, would the time he would have to spend looking for, then working with a fence go unnoticed by all of you? Does a plot like this really sound workable to you, especially for someone as meticulous as Neal?"

"Then what _did_ happen, El? I don't see—"

"I'm not through, Peter," she told him in a stern tone.

Then she spoke more gently, getting to the true heart of her argument. "Do you honestly believe Neal would do this to you of all people? After all your time together, after the life-and-death situations you've been through, including the one just yesterday when you could've both been blown to Kingdom come if the TNT on that sub had detonated? After he told you that you were the only one who could've convinced him not to run one more time, even to be with Kate? After he gave up _that ring_ to save your life?" She rose up off the sofa and walked over his side as he looked out the window.

"I know how it looks on the surface. But do you think if Jones or Diana came to him with a mountain evidence that said you were on the take, do you think Neal would believe it?" She put her hand alongside his face and gently turned his head towards her. "Peter, he would say that he _knows_ you, he _trusts_ you, and that no evidence on earth would make him believe that you were dirty. Can't you honestly say the same of him?"

**tbc**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I know it's been a terribly long time since I've posted any update to my story; it's only the usual dilemma of work and life demanding the waking hours of my day! I'm grateful for the patience of my readers' and will do my best to write and post on a more frequent basis…**

**I have to say though, as much as I'm enjoying the current summer season of WC, I think it was a stretch of the writers to make Mozzie the art thief. As much as we've been allowed to see of him, that kind of theft is almost too physical a job for him. He cons, he deceives, he masterminds, etc., but straight-out grand larceny…? With all humility, I like my solution better! **

**Clearly now we are in a pretty AU story line, but I may work in other canon details that are revealed in the current season as they crop up and relate to my little work of fiction.**

**Now . . . on with the tale . . .**

Chapter 3 concluded with this exchange between Neal and his father:

"_Good night, June," Neal echoed as he shut the door behind her. He turned and looked again at his father. "Do I dare even ask how it is that you know my landlady, who just happened to be married to one of Harlem's most successful con-men?"_

"_Ancient history, laddie," Steele answered. "Part of my misspent youth, long before I even met your mother. June and Byron were a safe port in a storm the first time I came to the US," he paused for a sip from his forsaken wine glass. "They were two of the kindest people I've ever met," he added reflectively._

"_I can't speak for Byron," Neal responded, "but I'll second your opinion of June. You can see the result of her kindness to me," gesturing to the apartment around them._

_Once again lazulite blue eyes met a matching pair over the rim of wide-mouthed goblets. Neal took a quiet breath before asking, "So, are you here to talk me into becoming a pork chop?"_

**Chapter 5**

Steele quirked an eyebrow at his son's question. "I had no idea you were mad at me, Daniel, if you—"

At the sound of his given name, Neal's eyes lost their charming glint. In a voice as cold and flat as his eyes he told his father, "Don't call me that. No one calls me that name . . . anymore."

His throat unexpectedly closed up on that final word. _Hell, where did that come from? _he asked himself. Neil wasn't about to go _there_ with _him_.

Immediately Steele saw his only child throw up familiar walls around his emotions. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset—"

Neal recovered quickly, gaining himself a few more seconds to regain his composure with a swallow from his own wine glass. "I'm not upset, Dad; I'm not mad at you. I just haven't heard the old name in a long time, that's all." He gave his father a grin and lightly asked, "I'm sure you could've found a more gullible mark if all you really wanted was a pork chop. What's goin' on?"

The older man accepted the changed direction of the conversation without comment, knowing it was useless to do otherwise. _Perhaps_ b_etween your pride, my dear Laura, and my talent for misdirection, we gave our son too strong an ability to hide his true self? If you were here now or I had been there then . . ._

Unconsciously imitating the younger version of himself, Steele put aside his emotions and responded in the same casual tone his son used.

"I need your help, my boy, with a little assignment that has, shall we say, gotten a bit out of hand."

Although the answer was delivered with less intensity than a weather report, the little warning voice inside Neal's head went off like the old robot from his favorite childhood afterschool show, _"Warning! Warning! Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!"_

His father, objectively speaking, was simply the best con-artist/thief of the past half-century.

Period.

There was no one better at making the opposition, whether mark or crook., believe the con – hell, _cooperate with_ _and advance_ the con. Neal _knew_ this to be true; it was an inescapable fact beyond filial admiration or the annual rankings in U. S. News & Underworld Report. The proof had been the fact that Neal and his mother had lived alone in safety for 12 years, until Neal left home when there was no longer a reason to stay.

Determined to stay as in control as his father, the younger man asked offhandedly, "Is that the reason for the grand announcement, the switch at the warehouse? You could've just sent a note."

Steele drew in a long breath, "Actually, that was more than a way to get your attention. I need the word out that the art is real, has been found and lost again, and – "

"— is out there and available?" Neal guessed.

"No," he answered slowly, "I need the word on the street to be that you have it."

**TBC!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6**

Neal stared at the man sitting across from him. He rather prided himself on his ability to "see things coming." His mind worked fast – as a con artist's must – so that he could analyze, react, and improvise in a situation as needed. It was a combination of natural ability and skill, honed to admirable sharpness by long experience. Neal was secretly pleased whenever Peter showed his surprise -.

_Peter!_

Their parting earlier that day had left a bad taste in Neal's mouth. The always (or so it seemed) cool consultant might never admit it to anyone, but it had **hurt** that Peter believed that he, Neal, would've pulled that kind of con on his FBI handler, no—his friend. Black thoughts had shadowed his mind ever since he'd thrown his reply in Peter's face, "Then prove it!"

And now his father was deliberately plotting to make sure that it got around that Neal indeed had possession of the priceless treasure?

In a rare, bitter moment Neal's thoughts ran to an adage he didn't normally subscribe to: _Life's a bitch._

Steele knew his answer had shocked his son. "If this wasn't of such an urgent nature, I would've asked and made sure to seek your cooperation beforehand, Neal — ."

"Really?"

The native Irishman heard the bitter edges of the response. "Really," his father affirmed steadily. He saw the blue eyes so like his own flick away and glance down at a well-shod foot. _What is . . . ahhh, not the Gucci shoe, the tracking anklet above it._

With a dark eyebrow quirking upwards he asked, "And what does that high-tech accessory have to do with my needing your help?"

A barely noticeable flush washed Neal's cheeks as he realized he had betrayed himself with one unconscious glance. _Damn, he hasn't lost a step has he?_

"That," he said with a rueful smile, "is the only reason I am living here, drinking good wine, and wearing these clothes, and not in prison, drinking tap water, and wearing an orange jumpsuit." He lifted his crossed leg a few inches higher, as if to display the tracking device better. "Behold my leash."

"And who holds the other end?"

"The man who spent three years to catch me: F.B.I. Special Agent Peter Burke, head of the New York White Collar Crimes Unit."

Steele was watching his son closely and listening even closer. There had been no anger, no bitterness in the admission.

"He has you on this leash in order to . . .?"

" . . . To help him catch bad guys," Neal squirmed a bit as he shared this last revelation with his father. "I get to stay out of prison, live _almost_ normally, and in return I am a 'consultant' on Peter's tougher cases."

Now it was the elder con man's eyes that emptied of good cheer and darkened with the shadows of a blacker emotion.

"Isn't that a familiar deal with the devil? Haven't you suffered enough at the hands of Federal agents?"

The Irish temper flared into bright anger when Steele heard his son's explanation, making the chair no longer comfortable but restricting. He hands curled into fists as he glared down at his boy. "My God, Neal, I always thought you had more brains than that! Why would you make the same mistake I did?"

"Dad," Neal said, rising to put a hand on his father's shoulder, "this is different, it's not the same."

Steele impatiently shook off the hand, refusing to be comforted by touch or words. He strode to the balcony, needing a greater sense of openness around him, needing to escape the feeling of confinement.

"Different? How do you figure that, Son? Sounds damn near identical to me!" _His leaving hadn't saved his family. Neal was living the same hell he had. Was that choice somehow __his__ fault as well?_

Neal drew in a deep breath and took a measured sip from his glass of wine before starting to follow the understandably angry man onto the balcony. His gamble hadn't paid off. By explaining the anklet so casually he had hoped it might prevent what had just happened.

Clearly it didn't.

And despite the near ten-year absence that had separated this meeting from the last, Neal knew his father well enough to see that this wasn't anger directed at him, but at Steele himself, still enraged and guilty over choices made so long ago.

Leaning against the doorframe between living room and balcony, Neal spoke softly, wanting to make his father turn back to him to hear him. "It **is** different, Dad. Peter Burke is no Tony Roselli." He saw Steele's whole body flinch briefly at the sound of that name. "And the rest of his FBI team is nothing like the corrupt bastards Roselli surrounded himself with over 20 years ago."

There was no response from the man at the railing.

"Dad – **please** – I wouldn't lie to you, not about this."

Slowly Steele turned around to once again face his only child. Neal closed the distance between them and fixed a steady gaze on his still-grieving father's face.

"I have Peter's back, and he has mine. I trust him, and he —." Neal stopped himself from completing the sentence and amended, "Well, he did sort of trust me, until this morning. Your plan is already in motion; Peter believes **I** stole the Nazi treasure. Your work is convincing, Dad."

_Can I really fault Peter for believing I'm guilty? Not even the great Agent Burke is sharp enough to not be taken in by one of the world's greatest art swindlers and thieves!_ Neal's personal sense of pain began to fade as realized his own father had laid the perfect trap. It was hardly Peter's fault he was the first one to get caught in it.

Every instinct in the one-time private detective wanted to say the hell with the entire dangerous scheme and drag his son off and far away from anyone in the U.S. government. He knew from experience that such a tie could be infinitely more dangerous than the plan Steele came to New York to propose. But the conviction in Neal's voice made him ask instead, "Will he help you? Will he help **us**?"

"Help us what?"

"Help us use the treasure to recover $75 million dollars in stolen diamonds."

**TBC!**

**A/N: Again, my thanks for your patience with my slow posting, and even more so, thank you for your enthusiastic enjoyment of my little tale! I am soooo glad to know it's been a good read for many of you.**

**I will admit I've had to make a significant plot adjustment as I had planned to make use of the art theft from the Gardener Museum in Boston. Then, just the other day, I discovered the **_**great**_** story If You Play with Fire by canadianscanget and saw that that device was already in play! Luckily there is another famous, unsolved theft I can use instead.**

**P.S. Tony Roselli was/is a character from the final partial season of Remington Steele. He was an interfering INS agent (played by Jack Scalia) who was out to "get" Remington Steele and who presumed to flirt with Laura! I plan to have fun by indulging myself and making him a full-fledged bad-guy. **


End file.
